The March of Time
by InsideOutlaw
Summary: An elderly outlaw reminisces about his past life.


**The March of Time**

The old tintype photograph was badly faded, nearly as faded as the wizened hands that held it at arm's length and the washed-out eyes that struggled to focus on the image of two men and a lovely girl sitting in front of them. They had all been so very young. In the prime of their lives. He remembered that day so vividly.

Some days he couldn't remember his own name, but those days, the days of his misspent youth, he could recall with amazing accuracy. Leaning back into the stuffed armchair, he closed his tired eyes and let his thoughts drift. Clem had been so excited to have them visiting her in Denver. She had chattered nonstop as they strolled down Larimer Street, going on and on about the opera being performed at the Denver Theatre, the latest fashions cropping up at local clothiers, her many suitors. This last said with a coquettish glance for each of the men at her elbows.

The barrage of words had swept over him like a tidal wave of sound, only to slowly recede until just the low hum of her voice lapped at his ears. He could still see her, the gleam in her deep brown eyes; the soft reflection of the noonday sun on her lustrous hair, her trim figure highlighted by a beautiful new dress. She had been golden; they all had been golden in those days. He glanced again at the photograph. When had the march of time passed them by and left them standing in its shadows?

She had tugged at his arm, rousing him from his contemplation, and pulling both men to a stop. Pointing to a shop window, she had pleaded, cajoled, and downright begged for their cooperation. She wanted something to help her remember them, she had said, some talisman that would keep them close to her heart, and this was just the thing. It was a new photography studio; the advertisement in the window offering two dollar tintypes. He had looked over her head at his partner. No words were needed and a silent agreement was struck. What arrogant, besotted fools they'd been. He smiled inwardly. They hadn't been able to resist her charms. Clem always got what she wanted, so they had sat for the portrait despite their budding notoriety. Not entirely unaware of the risks, they had requested only one print and had purchased the plate, too, which was tucked away in an inner jacket pocket. Later, after a wild evening on Blake Street, it had been discovered that the plate had been lost. With nothing to identify the subjects, they had shrugged it off and had forgotten about it.

He lifted the photograph and squinted at it again. Clem had been true to her word, for a while, and had kept what he had believed to be the only known photograph of Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry securely locked in her safety deposit box; that is, until she needed to blackmail them into bilking Winfred Fletcher. She had lifted the plate from his pocket that night on Blake Street. Of course she had. Clem had the lightest touch of any pickpocket he had ever known. Coerced into helping, they had thrown themselves into the con, enjoying it immensely. Like Clem had promised, it had been like the old days; the three of them working a con together again. He chuckled. The old days; he'd had no idea at that time what that phrase meant. He reckoned he did now.

Clem had passed on almost twenty-five years ago from the Russian influenza epidemic; still as fresh and beautiful as ever, before the bloom of youth had been completely stolen from her by the march of time. He had wondered sometimes if she had planned it that way; she would've hated growing old.

She'd never married and had passed on all her worldly possessions to the two of them, Thaddeus Jones and Joshua Smith. His heart ached with the loss as though it was new again and he remembered the day they had gone through her things. Such a vibrant life all distilled down to a small, wooden box. They had been shocked and surprised to find this copy of the photograph tucked into a seldom used bible. Lucky for Clem she hadn't been killed by lightening; tucking their picture into a holy book. His partner had slid the print from the bible and held it up for him to see. Laughingly, his cousin had started to tear it in half.

He looked down at the photograph in his hands and ran his thumb across the small tear at the top. He remembered his alarm and his swift reaction to the proposed destruction of Clem's image. They had argued over the risks, but they were both in their late 40's by then and were tired of running. The amnesty had been a pipe dream, used by an unscrupulous series of governors to take care of a tiresome problem. As plans went, the amnesty ploy had been brilliant, worthy of Hannibal Heyes himself. By the time they realized it was never going to happen, time had marched on again and they had changed; the world had changed. Telephones were commonplace and communication was established to the remotest of places. Their skills had become rusty and obsolete. Worse, they had become honest. Years of staying on the straight and narrow had dulled the sharp edges of their wits and robbed them of their larcenous natures. Time had proven to be the ultimate thief.

It wasn't much longer before time passed them by altogether. The Devil's Hole gang had faded into obscurity years before and Butch Cassidy's meteoric rise as the West's most successful outlaw nearly obliterated Heyes and Curry from the history books. Only tales of the old days, spoken around the campfire by old codgers, kept the legends alive. When his generation was extinguished, the legend would all but disappear.

He set the photograph by the lamp on the side table and studied it again. How arrogant they had all been, so assured of their fame and fortune, they had been called the most successful outlaws in the history of the west. They had never understood that history was often re-written and they had no place in it now. They had squandered all their promise on the wrong things. The ultimate irony was that their own greed and lust for fame had robbed them of their true chance for lasting posterity. A good wife, the joy of children; the small fame achieved as the beloved member of a family.

It was late now and he was so very tired. He reached over to pick up the photograph once again. Lord, he missed them. His partner, gone many years now, too, and Clem; ashes to ashes, dust to dust; his ma used to say. He sat alone with his memories until his eyes drifted shut again and, slowly his hand released the cherished picture. His head nodded forward onto his chest and his breathing slowed while his ears rang with laughter and joy and chattered nonsense. He could see it all now as though it was yesterday.


End file.
